


Firsts

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Injury, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Memories, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Those memories will always be embedded into his mind. He’ll always remember how his fingers and hands trembled and his breath caught in his throat and shivers rattled through his spine. Even if wine or ale or mead dulled his senses and muddled his words, there’s enough clarity to remember and lavish.There were a lot of firsts he likes to let wash over him again; the first time he lured a laugh out of the Witcher; the first time he sewed the Witcher’s skin back together after a particularly difficult hunt; the first time Geralt called him by his name and not 'bard'. And just like those times, he finds warmth blooming through his entire body, letting the memory wash and lap over him like gentle waves.Then he digs for more securely hidden memories. Ones locked away just for him and he would never make their way into songs – no matter how much he teases the Witcher.The first time they shared a bed and woke entangled around each other; the first time they kissed; the first time they slept together. Memories that flush his skin and stir his core.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 282





	Firsts

Those memories will always be embedded into his mind. He’ll always remember how his fingers and hands trembled and his breath caught in his throat and shivers rattled through his spine. Even if wine or ale or mead dulled his senses and muddled his words, there’s enough clarity to remember and lavish.

There were a lot of firsts he likes to let wash over him again; the first time he lured a laugh out of the Witcher; the first time he sewed the Witcher’s skin back together after a particularly difficult hunt; the first time Geralt called him by his name and not _bard_. And just like those times, he finds warmth blooming through his entire body, letting the memory wash and lap over him like gentle waves.

Then he digs for more securely hidden memories. Ones locked away just for him and he would _never_ make their way into songs – no matter how much he teases the Witcher.

The first time they shared a bed and woke entangled around each other; the first time they kissed; the first time they slept together. Memories that flush his skin and stir his core.

The first time Geralt touched him was in some secluded cave in the outskirts of Redania. They wouldn’t have made it to the next village before the storm tumbled in. What started as a few pattering raindrops suddenly became lashing rain and bone-chilling winds that howled through the trees surrounding them. It was a horrid day of travelling. The storm caught them by surprise, of course. It stumbled down the nearby mountains and it looked to stay. He remembers how sore his feet were from hiking and the beginnings of an ache in his shoulder from hauling around his bags and a lute case. No matter how many times he rolled his shoulder or tried stretching out his arms, the dull ache tightening his upper back wouldn’t budge.

Geralt started a fire and stew to simmer over it. Their provisions were wearing thin, but there was enough rabbit meat and hardy root vegetables for one last filling meal. The fire, though small, chased the worst of the chill away.

He remembers the warmth and the sounds of rushing rain pattering outside the mouth of the cave.

He remembers the tightness engulfing his shoulder.

And he remembers Geralt padding over to his side of the fire and catching his elbow in his palm. Jaskier barely had any time to think before a firm hand caught his strained shoulder and began to jostle it around slightly. Geralt grunted something about the bard holding himself too tightly and the damage only being minor.

Tremors of pain rattled through him as he bit the inside of his cheek and tried to swallow any noise. But the pain eventually ebbed into a dull ache. And the dull ache eventually waned away. Geralt hummed, letting Jaskier’s arm down before catching his shoulder and pressing firm fingers into the meat of the muscle there. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in a noise-less shout, only barely held off from the bard snapping his jaw shut again.

He focused on the warmth of the fire and the comforting, hearty smell of stew swirling around the cave, and not on the pain piercing through his shoulder or the fact that the Witcher’s fingers were digging into him. He tried to think of anything else – _anything_. Boring lectures he once sat through about dactylic poetry or how stuffy the main study hall smelt; anything to get the warmth blooming and tightening his core to _fuck off_ —

When his shoulder was deemed loose and relaxed enough, Geralt stepped away. Jaskier remembers the bitter cold that immediately took his place.

Geralt was attentive. Pouring out a bowl of stew for Jaskier and helping the bard eat it. _Gods alive Geralt, I’m not a cripple_ , he remembers scoffing as Geralt tried lifting a spoon to Jaskier’s lips. He had a perfectly fine right arm that could _lift a spoon to his own mouth, thank you very much_.

The Witcher smirked, but let the bard eat in peace.

Thoughts wouldn’t stop rampaging through his mind. Geralt was so close, practically flush up against his back as he wrung and palmed the muscle in Jaskier’s shoulder.

Even now, years later, Jaskier can feel his skin flush.

* * *

Their first kiss was after a particularly bad hunt. Jaskier waited in a local tavern; their room was already secured, paid for by Jaskier’s performance for the locals as they ate and drank and sang along with songs he desperately tried to remember belonging to this region of the Continent.

A nekker nest. The alderman told him that it lay just outside the walls, engulfed in the forest that surrounded the market town. Jaskier wanted to come. He’s read about nekkers, and he managed to lure just enough out of Geralt to know what they are, but he’s never seen one. He hasn’t seen a lot of monsters that Geralt hunts, just because the Witcher doesn’t want a dead bard on his hands.

But this hunt was a hard _no_. Not that he was complaining. If he had to choose to trek through a murky forest with Geralt in the rain, or stay singing in a tavern, fed with mead and smiling at pretty girls, he would have always chosen the latter.

He remembers being half-way through a song, some polka about a girl and her soldier lover, when the tavern door flew open and Geralt fell inside. Jaskier’s fingers stilled on his lute strings and his voice faltered as he took in the state of the Witcher. Drenched from the rain, his hair matted and sprawled over his face, and his swords still loosely held in his hand.

But Jaskier’s breath caught at the sight of blood. A lot of it. Starting to pool underneath the Witcher.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t remember hauling the Witcher upstairs and to their room. Maybe someone helped him – a blacksmith and his apprentice that he became very friendly with – but he can’t be sure.

But he does remember the first time he peeled Geralt’s armour away and saw blackened blood pouring out of deep cuts in the Witcher’s shoulders and chest. If he didn’t know already that Geralt’s heart beat slower than normal humans, and he could hold on to breath to savour it, he would have screamed for a healer. He’s dealt with enough of Geralt’s injuries to know what to do. What glass vials and bandages he needs and what to do with them.

Knitting Geralt’s cuts back together again took time. He remembers how his fingers trembled as the last of the grit and dirt from the forest was washed away and he saw the full extent of the injuries. He bit and chewed on his lip and tried his best to steady his breath as he closed the worst of the cuts. Blood still blackened with one of Geralt’s potions soaked through most of the bandages. A lump of them sat at Jaskier’s feet as he tried changing them again and again.

By the time he was finished making sure that Geralt could make it through the night, he felt just as exhausted. His hands still shook and his breath still trembled out of him as Geralt surfaced. The night was still waning on, with the sun not due to rise for another few hours. Jaskier blinked as Geralt’s eyes – golden eyes – fell on to him. “Jaskier?” The bard’s name bumbled out of his numb and tired lips.

He had stayed by the Witcher’s side, pulling up a chair to stay by the man’s bedside just in case his stitching broke or his heart finally stopped. Even though his name is nothing more than a gentle rasp, it had Jaskier bolting upright in his chair.

Geralt grunted as he tried to move, only stopped by Jaskier putting a firm hand on his chest. “Hey,” the bard hushed, “don’t move. You’re barely held together.”

With a slight groan, Geralt relaxed against the bed. It wasn’t the comfiest, but to an injured man, it was the best he could have hoped for. Black lines faded from Geralt’s skin. A normal colour had returned to his skin, though he still looked slightly pale under the dim candlelight.

Jaskier stood to sit on the edge of Geralt’s bed. Sleep wouldn’t’ come for him, no matter how tired his bones seemed to be. He couldn’t’ sleep knowing that something could happen to the Witcher while he dozed either in his chair or in the small sliver of free space by Geralt’s side.

Geralt grunted when the mattress dipped, but said nothing when the bard leaned over to check on his stitches. The skin around them was already starting to heal and knit back together again. Witcher’s and their abilities still muddled him, but he has grateful for Geralt’s body trying to heal itself and keep him alive.

Just as his hand brushed over one of the cuts running over Geralt’s pectoral, the Witcher caught his hand in a loose, bumbling grip. He still swayed between being awake and falling back to sleep, but he put up a good fight. Jaskier looked up just in time to see the Witcher watching him; a small frown creasing his brow.

He remembers how heavily his tongue sat in his mouth, almost suffocating, as he glanced down at his hand caught in Geralt’s. A maelstrom of thoughts engulfed his mind. A storm that wasn’t too keen on leaving, no matter how much he tried to will it away.

Geralt’s words were slow and barely tumbled out of his lips. “Thank you,” he sighed, his eyes beginning to hood again.

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ll always be here,” he mumbled, reaching out to place his other hand around Geralt’s. The Witcher ran warm; whether it was some kind of fever his body produced to run the last of his Black Blood out, or if he had always been like that and Jaskier never noticed until now.

Geralt’s other hand went to Jaskier’s elbow.

He was already close to begin with.

And so malleable, that when Geralt half-heartedly tugged him closer, he went.

The hand that engulfed his elbow climbed up to his shoulder and settled at his nape and tugged him even closer—

He shivers as he remembers how Geralt’s lips felt against his. The first time they kissed, Geralt was half-out of his mind from blood loss and Jaskier froze, knowing that he should pull away and talk to the Witcher about it later—

But he melted. He squeezed his hand around Geralt’s and didn’t want to leave.

Geralt remembered. A colour flushed his cheeks as he stammered through some sort of apology. The apology died on his lips as soon as Jaskier kissed him again, promising that he absolutely did _not_ regret it, and he would be set on luring more kisses out of the Witcher if amenable.

* * *

The first time they fell into a bed together was after a diplomatic meeting of some noble. Higher-end contracts meant more gold. And more gold earned a comfy bed and privacy.

It should have been out in the forest. Kisses got out of control as soon as wandering hands became involved. So they wandered underneath shirts and palmed at skin and did wonderfully terrible things underneath trousers. But the first time he had the Witcher _in_ him was in the first tavern they found after a hunt that brought them away from the road. Gods alive the noble was an insufferable git, but if his castle nestled on a high hill was anything to go by, gold would line their pockets soon enough.

By the end of it, they had enough gold for two rooms with meals and drinks; but by the names of all of the gods did Jaskier almost jump out of his skin as soon as Geralt grumbled something about only needing one room to the tavernkeep.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them and their bags were flung into opposing corners of the room, Jaskier fell against the Witcher. His hands cupped the man’s face, his thumbs brushing along the sharp edge of the Witcher’s jaw. He had kissed Geralt’s lips and jaw and neck, when privacy permitted. Wandering hands helped, but there was always a feeling of _not yet_ hanging over them.

But now—

Geralt hooked his hands underneath Jaskier’s thighs and hoisted him up. Waling them both to the bed, the Witcher’s lips never left his, even when breath waned and thinned.

Jaskier gasped as soon as he was set back against the mattress.

He remembers how air managed to evade him as Geralt settled over him, as each item of clothing that was stripped off and hurled into some corner of the room. All that echoed through his mind at the time was _finally_.

The first time their skin met, flames engulfed them both. Lips brushed and shared air hovered between them as hands drifted and palmed and dusted.

At the first rock of hips, Jaskier’s throat bobbed as a moan slipped out of him. He likes the pleasures of life, and those that other people can give him. At that stage, he was famous for fucking his way through half of the Continent. But this was different. It wasn’t a simple lay like all of the noble ladies and blacksmith sons before. Geralt’s fingers pulled noises and shivers out of him like no one else did. He knew how to move around the bard, how slow to pry him apart with fingers, how long to wait until the last tremors of orgasm left him before moving in to lure out another.

His core tightens at the memory of the first time Geralt slipped inside him; how easily he parted around the Witcher and how pleasure shivered through him. Geralt was big and just enough to keep him teetering on the edge of release, just by pushing his way into him. At the first roll of hips, Jaskier’s voice cut out. Noiseless and choked-off moans and attempts at Geralt’s name were fucked out of him as Geralt caught his legs and brought him closer. Every thrust, the short and jabbing ones, and the long languid ones, had him hurtling towards the edge, and being yanked back as Geralt slowed or stopped.

The curses that leapt out of his throat would rival those of a Skellige sailor.

He remembers the laugh wracking through Geralt’s shoulders as the Witcher curled around the bard and had him aiming for the edge again—

* * *

“Jaskier?”

He looks up, meeting golden eyes watching him from their bed. Outside, a winter’s night sky stretches out over the Continent. The Wolf brought them home for the season. The Continent will survive without him, and will still look for him the second he steps back off of the mountains.

Until then, Kaer Morhen shrouds them from outside eyes.

Jaskier puts the last of his lotions away. Harsh, winter winds are never kind to his skin; let alone those that howl throughout the keep and around the mountain. Suitably soft and smelling faintly like desert roses, he stands from the small vanity pressed up against one of the room’s walls. He pads over to the bed.

Geralt lounges in it, heavy blankets already pulled over his lap and furs lining the foot of the bed. He has an arm folded behind his head. A loose and lazy smile curls along his lip. “Where were you just now?” he rumbles.

Jaskier’s sleep-clothes are plain breeches and a worn shirt that almost hangs off of one shoulder. A shirt that Geralt is fairly convinced belonged to him at one point.

Jaskier watches the Witcher’s nose flare as he slips underneath the sheets, pulling them snugly around himself. Though warmed with hearths and tapestries, the keep can get chilly in the early morning hours. And he’s never known a greater blanket thief than Geralt of Rivia.

“Just remembering some things,” Jaskier says, taking his usual place pressed flush against Geralt’s side. He hums at the familiar weight of the Witcher’s arm curling around his shoulders. At the first brush of his fingers against his back, Jaskier sets his head against the man’s chest.

Geralt makes a quiet noise. The keep fell asleep long ago, with Vesemir being the first to retire. After their game of Gwent, and more tankards of ale than Jaskier could count, both Eskel and Lambert slumped off to their own rooms. “I’ve never known you to spend so much time in the past,” he rumbles.

“The future is looking very uncertain,” Jaskier says, idly tracing his fingers over the Witcher’s bare chest – over paled lines that he helped form. “Forgive me if I want to lounge in some kinder memories.”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “I would never disparage you from that,” he says. He presses a kiss into the crown of Jaskier’s head. His lips linger as his nose brushes into Jaskier’s hair, smelling the scent of sea salt and the shampoo he always buys off of one particular vendor in Redania. It’s a smell that’s so uniquely _Jaskier_ that he fills his lungs with it.

Jaskier hums, burying his face into Geralt’s chest. He’s warm and soft and pliant from a bath, and just on the edge of sleep. His fingers curl loosely on his chest. Underneath his palm, a steady, slow heartbeat.

Sleep is slow to come stalking out of the shadows clinging to the far corners of the room. It starts to tug at Jaskier first. His eyelids grow heavy and droop and he struggles to stay awake to watch the slow rise and fall of Geralt’s chest.

But sure fingers worm underneath his shirt and drift up and down his spine. It only helps the shadows of sleep grow darker.

He sighs, curling an arm firmly around Geralt. He’s here and warm and a sure weight caught in his arms. And will be there when he wakes up – early morning training drills with Vesemir be damned.

And while he lounges in memories and lets them warm his bones, memories don’t compare to living in the now, with the Witcher. Hopefully, he can build enough of them up to ignore the fire about to engulf the Continent.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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